When Chelsea and Barcelona were drawn against each other for the third year in a row, most observers felt the games would lack edge because both sides were likely to qualify for the knockout stages regardless of the results. Some chance. Points mean prizes, but male pride means a whole lot more. Tonight, the Nou Camp was secreting testosterone from every pore.

Chelsea against Barcelona has become a battle of will rather than skill. These two sides have an unspoken acknowledgement that they are the biggest threat to one another's Champions League hopes; besides, entities as ideologically opposed as Pedro Almodovar and Jerry Bruckheimer are never likely to get on, whatever the context. Even Frank Rijkaard lost it as badly as at any time since he gave Rudi Voller the flob-and-go treatment during Italia 90. When Didier Drogba deservedly equalised in injury time, John Terry's face was so demented that he looked like he was auditioning for a part as Trainspotting's Francis Begbie. Jose Mourinho provided a sequel to his Old Trafford war-dance by sliding on his knees across the turf, deliriously dirtying the knees of his immaculate suit.

The problem is that both sides had already sullied their reputations in an unmissable but almost exclusively unedifying contest. At times in the first half, and in an anarchic denouement, it was miserably bitchy; at times in the second half it was thrillingly end-to-end, with the occasional touch of the purest Ronaldinho a particular joy. But the impurity of the former far outweighed the richness of the latter. Thiago Motta, Rafa Marquez, Ricardo Carvalho and Didier Drogba, who made a complete fool of himself for 91 minutes before remembering what he was on the pitch for and scoring a beautiful goal, were the main villains, but they were hardly alone. Terry's arrogant attempts to referee the game were particularly unpleasant. It was all so ugly that you couldn't take your eyes off it.

Such rampant boorishness is not a problem in itself. Football may be the beautiful game, but it has always been disfigured - the acne, pimples, zits and blackheads add to the unique charm of such a multi-faceted sport. For many, the best match of the World Cup was the kickfest between Portugal and Holland, a guilty pleasure and black comedy that nobody could stop talking about or laughing at. Chelsea themselves were involved in one of the most memorable FA Cup games of all, the final replay of 1970 against Leeds that is renowned entirely for its chilling brutality. But this was dreadful precisely because, certainly in the first half, there were no particularly bad tackles. It made the constant whinging and diving about as enchanting as watching two millionaires squabble over whose round it was. At one point Carvalho kicked Lionel Messi in the chest and, genuinely irate, promptly ordered him to get up. It was a preposterous act of self-delusion.

Not that Barca were any better. Usually, watching them is food for the soul. This was bile for the soul. They stupidly allowed themselves to be dragged down to Chelsea's level, like a philosopher being goaded into settling a debate with an arm-wrestle, and swapped their usual pretty-passing triangles for a circle of pettiness that their visitors were more than happy to usher them into. For 45 minutes the only contest was to see which side was the most charmless. It was a dishonourable draw.

The odd thing was that, on the few occasions when a football match broke out, Chelsea were actually the better team. They created more in the first 10 minutes of the second half than they have in their two previous visits to Barcelona put together, and had the better of the chances overall, although the suspicion remains that Barca only really hit top gear when the scores were level, at which point they scored after just two and six minutes. Michael Essien, a crucial absentee from both matches between these sides last season, was a magnificently athletic influence, while Frank Lampard was extremely close to the irresistible force which overwhelmed Monaco in 2004 and Bayern Munich a year later.

Khalid Boulahrouz had an absolute stinker, but overall Chelsea will be delighted with their night's work. It was their most convincing performance against Barca so far and, whatever the rights and wrongs, not even Roman Abramovich could find enough money to buy the amount of team-bonding they will wring from this match. Sadly, nor can he buy the goodwill of neutrals. Tonight's events will not have changed that problem one little bit.